


The Lies You Tell Your Mother

by oneshinyapple



Category: Marvel (Comics), Spider-Man (Comicverse), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: 5+1 Things, Other, Writing Exercise, also implied spideytorch because i can't help myself save me, brief mention of bullying, lots of purple prose, metaphors are murdered, positively aubergine, sentences run until they're out of breath, the PURPLEST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-05-31 16:20:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15123257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneshinyapple/pseuds/oneshinyapple
Summary: She holds you close to her as you tremble, the shape of her grief encapsulating your rage. Within the fragile arms that encircle you, the brittle bones and the paper thin skin, you find in her something that can never be broken, and you know: you will never be stronger than this.ORFive times (out of many) Peter lied to Aunt May, and one time he told her the truth.





	The Lies You Tell Your Mother

**Author's Note:**

> Mostly written as an exercise, I was debating posting since I'm not sure it's at shareable quality? The prose is super purple and there are a lot of run-on sentences! Watch me stretch a hundred metaphors! But I figured it could be a learning experience.
> 
> May Parker may not be biologically Peter's mom but she IS his mom and she's the best.

1.

The bruise is as big as a grapefruit, a brown and yellow shadow on the skin stretched thin over your ribs.  You never meant for anyone to see it, but of course she does, glancing in as she’s walking past your open door while you change for bed.  Her cry is an icy knife in your gut. 

“Peter, where’d you get that?” she asks, voice high with concern, her worried steps forward driving you back against the dresser.

You tripped and fell against the banister, on the stairs back in school.  You tell her this with a tired, apologetic shrug, surprising yourself with your own nonchalance.  She already knows that you’re clumsy, but she doesn’t have to know that the staircase was actually a boy named Flash Thompson, and the banister was his fist.

She just frowns and tells you to be more careful and bustles off, calling for Ben and ice.

It’s the first lie you ever told her, and the words were bitter in your mouth.

 

2.

The next lie tastes like copper, like blood and salty tears.  She asks where you were when she needed you, too distraught to see your scraped and bleeding knuckles, the dried red on your skin.  You say you were lost and angry, and you’re sorry, so sorry.

You don’t mention what you did while you should have been here.  Nor do you tell her you’ve learned the precise pitch of flesh striking flesh, of the delicate frailty of a human body in your hands, of the stench of sweat and fear.  You don’t say that you’re suddenly laden with regrets: for the failure to live up to his expectations, for allowing spite stop you from doing the right thing and, most of all (worst of all), for not reaching some sort of definite conclusion, though whether that would have meant death or a cage, you’ll never know.  You let the regrets take refuge in your fury, fanning it into a glorious blaze, until it feels about to consume you, to leave you in ashes and in flames.

But she holds you close to her as you tremble, the shape of her grief encapsulating your rage. Within the fragile arms that encircle you, the brittle bones and the paper thin skin, you find in her something that can never be broken, and you know: you will never be stronger than this.

 

3.

Gwen falls and the world ends.  She waits months before she asks if you’re okay.  The lie you give her doesn’t taste like anything, and it’s no surprise.  Everything has tasted like nothing since.  You eat her meatloaf at dinner without complaint while her eyes map the new shadows blooming on your face, flowers that fade overnight, to be replaced by new ones the next day. 

“You know I love you, right?” she asks, out of the blue.

You nod and smile, even though it just makes the thin slit on your lip crack open wider.  “Yeah, of course.  I love you, too, May,” you say, trying for truth.  And for the briefest moment, it’s like sugar on your tongue.

 

4.

“I guess she wasn’t the one,” you say one day, trying too hard to smile.

May’s eyes are sharp and knowing, disbelief never plainer on her face that it is now, despite the years of unconvincing answers to questions about a growing history of broken bones and blood-stained clothes.  “You love Mary Jane more than anything.”

“Not more than you. No one ever more than you.”

It doesn’t work this time, the attempt to distract with charm and flattery (and truth, so much truth).  “What _really_ happened, Peter? What went wrong?”

“Everything,” you shrug, not actually as good at feigning indifference as you think you are.  “And me. Mostly me. It’s…for the best, Aunt May.”

She makes a small noise and clears the table, taking away your plate even though you’re not finished, a protest – half-uttered—stuck in your throat.

Later, you’ll concoct the finest fiction, whole lies made savory with half-truths.  But for now your gut is still twisting inside you, and you wonder why the memory of Mary Jane and her vivid red hair only brings up thoughts of fire and of darkness, of a burning hollow in your soul.

 

5.

You feel like a thief taking back your own body, finding out that the life returned to you looks nothing like what he took.  It comes back to you broken, in fragments from which to rebuild, foreign pieces you have never held in your hands to have any idea where they should go.

And then May beams at you, when you’ve climbed higher than you ever thought you could, stepping on the spine of Otto’s dream to get there, grinding the bones of it to dust beneath your feet.  Never has a smile felt so much like a knife, her love and pride a like a sliver of steel in your heart.  For an instant you fear, from the darkness Otto left behind, that May _didn’t_ know because she _doesn’t_ know you. That no one does, after all.

 _It wasn’t me,_ you feel like screaming, the unspoken thought sharp like acid in your throat. _It wasn’t me!_

Instead you clench your teeth and accept the praise without feeling like you deserve it, just like this world built with hands that were yours but also not.  Like this name and this life that belongs to the ghost of a whisper, resurrected from an echo that had already once faded away.

 

6.

There are new bruises on your body, small and red on your pale skin.  She gives the ones on your throat a knowing gaze, eyes darting to glance at the other man at the table, all blue eyes, golden hair and laughter.  She must wonder where he came from, this best friend and something else who came out of nowhere, conjured from smoke and flame, a relationship that seems years old without her having ever heard of it.

Surprisingly, she doesn’t ask the obvious questions, with their carefully crafted answers already lined up on the edge of your lips.  Not even when it’s just the two of you, elbows-deep in suds and her best china, shoulder to shoulder like hundreds of times before.

“Are you happy, Peter?” she asks instead, gaze intent but soft around the edges.

“As happy as I can ever be,” you say, surprised when you realize you mean it — the sweetest truth pushing all other words to the side.

May’s expression is bright when she turns to you, the faintest glimmer of mischief in the corner of her eye.  In the next moment, there’s a cascade of cold bubbles down your neck, an old familiar giggle, and your own indignant squawk loud in your ears.

As happy as you can ever be, whatever that means. If this is as far as it could go, you decide you’ll take it. Let it fill the cup, however small.  For all that there’s a void that can never be filled within you, a piece of yourself torn away and forever lost, there’s warmth here and now meant for no one besides you.  Your heart, heavy as it is, has been given wings.


End file.
